


Hearts On The Homefront

by mandywritesfiction



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Possible Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6318565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandywritesfiction/pseuds/mandywritesfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Army Ranger Owen Grady was injured during his fourth tour in Afghanistan, he swore he’d never return to the soil that so badly betrayed him, but after six months in an intense physical rehab program out of an Army Hospital located in the heart of Germany, he couldn’t stand the thought of continuing to live on base when he no longer considered himself military.</p><p>Veterinarian and kennel owner Claire Dearing has always been taken care of. Whether it was when she was six years old and lost her parents in a fiery car accident, or for the years after when her older sister Karen kept her on the straight and narrow, now it’s Claire’s turn to be the rock. Left vulnerable after a marriage that ended in divorce, she isn’t sure she’ll ever be the person she once was, but counts on her best friend Lowery Cruthers to help keep her head above water.</p><p>Owen finds himself on Lowery’s doorstep just days after being released to fly back to the states, but is given strict orders; he can stay with Lowery, just as long as he doesn’t get involved with Claire. Will two people with scars deep enough to tell a story find comfort in one another? Or will they leave their hearts on the home-front in attempt of covering their pasts?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Feed Me Your Lies (I'll Tell You Mine)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Y'all thought you had gotten rid of me, didn't ya? Well, I'm back, and I must be crazy to think that I can keep up with writing two Clawen stories at the same time, and yet here I am. I've been in love with the idea of carrying on the story of Owen being in the military and, while this is far different from Owen being in the Navy, I couldn't help but fall head over heels in love with this plot. So, please, enjoy the angst!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own nor am I taking credit for any of the song lyrics that are appearing as chapter titles.

* * *

 

“Wait, don’t tell me...” The raven-haired woman stepped around the front desk and into the kennel area, ignoring the fact that her best friend’s sister hadn’t shown up to work yet. Posturing a hand on her hip, she smirked, “you went on a date last night and now you’re blushing because you slept with him?” 

Claire shot a dangerous glare at her best friend before she reached down to pick up the small bowl out of the kitten’s cage. “Are you being serious? I didn’t sleep with him, no. He was...” 

“Missing a few pebbles?” 

Claire snorted with laughter and nodded. 

Benjamin, or  _Benny_  as he preferred, was a bar owner in their small town, but if you were to meet him, the first thought would  _not_ be that of a business owner. More of a guy who was stuck back in his high-school role as a jock, who still believed the most important things in life were football, beer, and sex. 

Not that she was pure. But when he was drunk merely an hour into their date, Claire had made up her mind.

“Claire, I don’t know what you were expecting, but you better not go on another date with him. He took you to his  _bar_ , where he can write everything off.” Zara reached down to pick up one of the small calico kittens before she cuddled it to her chest. The best part of being best friends with a veterinarian? Morning cuddles with various small critters. 

“I wasn’t  _expecting_  anything, and it’s my choice if I go on another date with him, thank you very much.” 

But, the truth of the matter was even Claire was wary of another date. Not only was her sister going through a rocky divorce, one where her two sons were involved, but dating just wasn’t at the top of her list. 

Or, after the previous night it was no longer. It fell to the bottom. Right above renovating the kennel portion of her clinic. 

When Claire had graduated with her degree in veterinary medicine, she never thought she’d still be in the rural Wisconsin town, where everyone knew  _everyone’s_  business. At twenty-six, Claire had jumped at the first chance of marriage when her boyfriend through college had proposed. Flash forward a year into their marriage, and she caught him cheating with an ex-girlfriend the night she came home from a conference in Fargo. 

Now, at twenty-nine, Claire imagined she would have already moved across the country to be be living on a coast with a beach, going for morning runs on the sand with her German Shepherd, Serge, and living as a young, single woman. 

Life had a funny way of knocking her down when she was  _finally_ getting ahead. Claire put her dreams aside to stay in her hometown with her sister, Karen, who was going through a rocky divorce. Plus, the thought of leaving her two nephews who she adored was the final piece of the puzzle. 

She couldn’t leave. 

When Karen had been laid off a year before from the bank she worked at, Claire hired her as the daytime attendant for her animal clinic and kennel. Business had been steadily increasing and it had become an issue of trying to run a kennel  _and_ be a veterinarian in the building next-door. It seemed to be a great fit, and Claire surely needed the help.

Not that she was great at admitting it.

“What about Lowery?” 

Claire turned towards Zara with a frightened look, furrowing her eyebrows until they ran together in a single etched line. “What  _about_  him, Zara? Are you suggesting that I should date my,  _our_ , best friend? The guy I’ve known practically my entire life? Plus, he’s dating that one girl... Hailey?  _Harley_?” 

 _Reminder to self,_ she thought,  _call him about being a dog-walker._

The more she tried to ignore Zara’s words, the more she wanted to vomit. And laugh. Lowery Cruthers was the guy every woman was attracted to and he was far too polite to chase them away. A former Army Ranger, Lowery was thirty and all but retired, working part-time for his father’s accounting firm in their hometown. Word was Mister Cruthers was planning to hand over the business to his only son when he retired, but Lowery was persistent on convincing his father to simply sell it. 

“If you’re going to hang around here on the weekends, you have to do more than distract me. So pick up a scooper and clean out the litter boxes.” Claire pointed to the corner, but there was no use. Zara was practically shuffling the kitten back into its pen and backing out of the room. 

“Oh, come on! You pick up after second-graders all day, I’m just asking you to clean  _cat litter.”_ Claire could hardly get another word in before she heard the bell at the front door. 

Silence. 

She barely waited to yank her phone out of her pocket and smushed her thumb to the screen long enough for Lowery’s face to show up, and then  _he_  was calling her. 

Go figure. 

“Hey, were your ears ringing?” She smiled into the phone, waiting to hear his soothing voice on the other end. 

He laughed. “Let me guess, you and Zara were talking about my good looks again?” 

“Wrong, again. We were talking about marrying you, you know. It’s practically my biggest fantasy,” Claire snorted at the sarcasm lacing into her voice. Of course he knew she was kidding; the only time she would actually be  _serious_  about marrying him is if she chugged a bottle of top-shelf tequila. 

“Whatever. Listen, that’s not why I was calling. I need a favor...” 

A  _favor_  for Lowery was like asking to have a kidney. The last time he needed something from Claire, it was keeping his dog until he came back from his third tour in Afghanistan. Two months into being a  _foster parent_  to his German Shepherd, Tango, it was discovered that she had been pregnant and gave birth in the middle of the night. Needless to say, when Claire walked into the kitchen the following morning, nine tiny puppies were scattered among the tile floor. 

Yet, it had been a blessing in disguise. Without Tango being pregnant, she wouldn’t have Serge. 

“All right, fine, but before you say anything, don’t forget about Zara’s surprise party tonight. It’s important that you’re there...”

Claire could practically hear the gears shifting in his mind, probably thinking of ways to try and get out of it. “Lowery Cruthers, you  _will_  be there tonight, right?”

“Yes, alright? I’ll be there.” He huffed a loud sigh before he continued. “Now, about the favor...” 

 “Shoot.” 

“I need you to keep Tango, just for the weekend. I’m taking Hannah up into the mountains for the weekend and --” There was rustling in the background and what sounded like Lowery dropping his phone to the floor. It wasn’t until she heard the familiar name that she realized what was happening. 

“Claire, ya still there?” 

“Yep, I’m here, just waiting with bated breath to hear if you’re going to propose to h--” 

Before she could smart off again, Lowery was giving a hasty goodbye, promising he’d call her back later. 

“Well Serge,” she glanced down to her dog as the friendly canine shoved her cold, wet nose into the palm of her hand, “do you want to help shovel cat litter?” 

In typical Serge fashion, the large dog fell to her side with a paw draped over her snout and played dead. “You’re dramatic,” she sighed and set off on grabbing the litter shovel.

It was just another typical Saturday morning in the life of a veterinarian. 

* * *

 

“Look what the fucking wolves drug in. Owen fucking Grady,” Lowery howled as his best friend and fellow soldier stood outside on his front porch. He let his gaze once-over Owen, partially wanting to make sure he was in one whole piece, and didn’t miss the way he limped or reached slowly for the door. He knew he’d been injured, and he couldn’t help but be curious how, yet he’d never had the heart to call and ask. Before the guilt scratched at him any further, he pushed the screen door open and allowed his best friend to step inside without failing to notice the lack of Grady’s usual shit-eating grin. 

When he turned eighteen, Lowery had decided to branch out of their small Wisconsin town to join the Army. While he loved the town he was raised in, there wasn’t much opportunity for a guy who didn’t know what he wanted to do. He wasn’t prime on going to the local university, nor did he want to join the family business, so his next best option was to sign up for boot-camp. 

A month later he found himself at Ft. Banning, Georgia, and what his parents figured would be a three-month stint before he was begging to come home turned into three tours of duty in Afghanistan before he chose to withdraw without reenlisting. He gave all credit to the Army for shaping him into the man he was today, and gave a sliver of credit to Owen Grady. 

Upon first look, Owen Grady seemed like the All-American guy; the one every mother locked their daughter up over and fathers gripped their guns a bit tighter to protect their little girls from. He was a force to be reckoned with, and hell on wheels. During boot camp, they’d  _bonded_  over the lack of emotions they shared and it was only with luck that they were shipped to Afghanistan together, where they served three tours together. It was always Cruthers and Grady, where one went the other followed. 

That was until Grady decided to go one more tour before retiring. 

It didn’t come as a surprise, and as much as Lowery wanted to stand beside his best friend for another year, he couldn’t fathom the idea of putting himself back in the heart of war, especially was it was heating up. 

He’d heard of Owen’s accident from a mutual friend but, when he had called Owen out of the blue six months prior, Owen requested that he not fly to Germany to see him. He didn’t want visitors, and would call him when he got out of physical therapy. 

And now, standing in his foyer was his comrade. 

“Man, it’s really good to see you, Cruthers.” Before he made it more awkward to be standing in front of a guy he hardly recognized, Owen leaned forward and clapped his hand around Lowery’s shoulder, bringing him in for a quick, yet manly hug. 

“Honestly, I had no idea you were even out of rehab much less back in the states,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “When the hell did you get back?”

“T minus thirty-six minutes ago. It took me long enough to drive here from the small-ass county airport, but when I stopped at the first hick gas-station, everyone there knew who you were, so it didn’t take long to find you,” he scoffed with the slightest bit of annoyance in his tone. “For someone who was a Ranger, you’ve sure set it up to be found easily.” 

At this, Lowery rolled his eyes and walked away from his friend, further into his apartment. This was going to require beer, he figured. 

Owen Grady was an enigma, or so he’d been told enough that he adopted it as his own motto. As someone who had never liked to follow the rules growing up and ran away from foster homes more times than he could could, it was a surprise that he chose the Army when he was nineteen after spending an entire year post-high school trying to find himself. 

With training, he became one of the Rangers’ brightest sharp-shooters, and along side Lowery, they were an unstoppable team throughout their three tours together. 

“Beer?” He turned his gaze up toward his best friend and shook his head. It would only interact with his medication, which wasn’t something he exactly needed. 

“I don’t want to ask, but --” Lowery trailed off when he realized what he was going to ask of his best friend and trailed off, unable to finish the question. It wasn’t his place to intrude, and if Owen wanted to share the details, he would at some point. 

Even if it would kill him in the interim not to ask. 

“Listen, I was hoping I could stay here for a while? I know you offered a room when you got out, and if the offer no longer stands, I totally get it...” 

Lowery leaned against the counter with a quieting grin, one that he hoped would speak more than his words ever would. How could he say no to someone he considered a brother? “You’re lucky that I have a spare bedroom in this shit apartment. Down the hall and to the right, it has a bathroom attached to it, and help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge.” Lowery stepped forward and extended his hand towards Owen, without missing that he extended the wrong hand to shake, causing Lowery to stutter in his movements. 

And then he remembered;  _the party._  

“There is one  _small_  caveat; you have to go to a surprise party with me tonight.” 

* * *

 

“Why did you drag me here tonight of all nights, Claire? You know I’m not in the mood to be at a  _country club_.” Zara practically whined the entire walk from the parking lot to the club’s ballroom, where Claire had spent  _hours_  decorating throughout the day. 

It was all apart of her great plan. She knew Zara wouldn’t want to stick around earlier in the morning to help her around the kennel, and by getting her out earlier, she was able to high-tail it to the club to decorate for her best friend’s thirtieth birthday surprise party. 

As they entered the dark room, Claire pouted and turned towards Zara. “I could’ve sworn your parents asked us to meet them at eight, right? Listen, I’ll go talk to the front desk, maybe tonight wasn’t --” 

Just as planned, Claire turned away to have a ‘talk’ with reception and flicked the lights on as she walked out as thirty of their friends, family, and her fellow colleagues at the school jumped out from behind the bar, “surprise!” 

Zara clasped a hand over her mouth in genuine disbelief, her gaze darting back and forth between Claire who stood behind her and Lowery, who was standing in front of the bar with a guy she didn’t recognize, before she squealed with delight. “You two planned this and neither of you slipped up and told me?”  

Unsure of who to hug first, she held a hand out for her two favorite people and waited until they were both within reach before kissing their cheeks, one at a time. “I fucking love both of you,” she smiled and dropped Lowery’s hand to wipe at the tears that slipped down her cheek. “You both are too good to me.” 

“Oh, you haven’t seen good yet,” Lowery glanced over at Claire with a smug smirk resting low on his features, “wait until you see the cake.” 

While the three shared a tender moment, Owen watched from beside the bar and thought how he'd never felt more at place. The only thing keeping him cemented to the spot he stood and not sneaking outside to have a quick puff from a cigarette was the lively red-head who had caught his attention. 

He’d stopped smoking, for the most part, but there were times where he needed it to take the edge off his nerves.

Owen remembered her face from the picture Lowery had carried in his pocket throughout the three tours they served together. It wasn’t just of her, but the way the crease fell kept the two women separated. 

Barely snapping out of his reverie when his best friend stepped back to him, he looked up just in time to see the  _gorgeous_  fiery-redhead standing before him, along with the brunette behind her, but she seemed to be in her own world. 

“Grady, this is Claire Dearing. Claire, this is Grady, the guy I’ve told you about.” 

“Oh, right! The Army Ranger, right?” When she smiled, her features lit up, and she couldn’t help but let her gaze drop to notice the way his button-down tightened around his biceps and held snug to his chest. 

“Ex-Ranger, actually. I got out about six months ago.” He pressed forward the most of a smile he could muster when thinking of his time in the service, all of which had been mowed over by the experience of being in a hospital bed for close to a month after the explosion. 

Claire shrugged a pale shoulder before she smiled briefly at him. “Ah, well, Lowery’s talked about you so much that I feel like I know you, but regardless, it’s nice to meet you.” Claire excused herself a moment later as Zara’s parents walked up and enveloped her in a hug, dragging her away to question her ability to keep a secret hidden from their daughter. 

All the while, Owen wasn’t able to tear his gaze away from Claire as she walked away, gaping as he caught sight of her long, slender legs in the skinny, ass-hugging jeans. The sight alone was enough to cause him to drool.

“Hey,” Lowery gripped his shoulder, tearing him back from his day-dream of pulling Claire back towards the bar, lifting her as his hands would slide under her thighs, brushing across her ass-- “Dude,” he tightened his grip on his friends bicep, ignoring the way Owen winced in pain, practically growling the word. “Don’t think about it, not her. You can have anyone  _but_  her.” 

 _Now, that just makes it a sweet prize,_ Owen smirked to himself. Of course Lowery would say that; it was clear he wanted  _Claire_  for himself. 

“I’m serious, Grady. She’s vulnerable.” 

“ _Vulnerable_?” Owen scoffed, rolling his eyes with just as much dramatic effect as his best friend used in his empty threats. “She hardly looks vulnerable to me.” 

Lowery passed a subtle glance towards the patio she’d stepped onto, watching as she wrapped her arms around herself. Tearing his eyes away, he looked to his side at the empty spot where Owen had been standing. 

“Damnit.” 

* * *

 

Claire stood with her back to the windows that looked out onto the veranda, arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the brick wall that separated the deck and the lake twenty feet below.

It was the perfect winter night, and Claire tilted her head back to stare up at the sky, taking in the black velvet background and how each star dazzled like a shining light that guided her path. If she’d believed in it. Not to mention it was bone-chilling cold, but she couldn’t have expected anything different. She’d survived twenty-nine years in the cold, and she didn’t exactly plan on moving away any day soon. 

Especially not if Karen continued in the hole she was stuck in. 

Owen stepped up behind her, leaving only a foot between himself and her, but close enough that he could smell what seemed like lavender and mint shampoo. “Do you normally make habit of standing outside talking to yourself?” 

Claire yelped and jumped a clear foot before she swiveled around to set a glare straight on him. “Goddamnit, why the fuck would you do that?” Claire balled both hands into fists and, before she knew what she was doing, reached out to hit him in the shoulder. 

While he couldn’t blame her, Owen couldn’t stop the grimace that set deep into his features, furrowing his eyebrows together as he started to silently count to ten. It was a stupid trick he’d learned in therapy; ten seconds to let pain dull, that’s all it would usually take. And, until now, he had only ignored the words from his physical therapist. 

Until now. 

He gritted his teeth together as his eyes fluttered closed, clenching them closed until the red, searing pain had disappeared, and he only realized when he focused that it had disappeared in less than ten seconds. 

Then he felt her hand gripping his hand, prying his fingers from his palm as she squeezed the skin between his thumb and forefinger between her own fingers. 

“Acupressure,” she breathed, never once taking her eyes off him. “Some think it’s phony bullshit, but I’ve found that it actually helps. And, as the one who just punched you, I think that means I’m allowed to take the same pain away, wouldn’t you agree?” 

_Or, you could kiss me instead._

Owen could barely think of another word to say and wasn’t sure he was still breathing, only knew he was still standing before Claire. He blinked several times until his eyes cleared of the few tears that had formed and laughed quietly, glancing down at her hands that still held his firmly. 

“Acupressure, eh?” Owen smirked before he reached for her hand and turned it over to expose her calloused palm. Yet, once Claire realized he had noticed, she pulled her hand back as if he had shocked her and held it close to her chest. 

He had no right to ask her what had happened, but the moment he looked up to meet her gaze, Owen could tell it was tragic. She wouldn’t have reacted so harshly had her palm been burnt by a stove, or a hot pan. But he had felt the skin that was patched in places, almost like there was a skin graft that had taken months to heal. 

He would know... he’d seen it enough on the battlefront. 

“I’m sorry, I --” Owen started before he heard chirping coming from her...  _pocket_? 

Claire jumped slightly at the interruption before she reached for her phone, yanking it from her pocket and pressing it to her ear without looking at the screen. “Doctor Dearing...” 

 _Doctor?_ His eyes went wide. She was a  _medical_  doctor? 

Maybe that was the reasoning behind Lowery telling him to buzz off when it came to Claire. 

“ _Damnit,_ her stitches came open again? All right, okay, Marsha,  _Marsha_ , Duchess will be fine. Just bring her to the clinic -- yes,  _tonight_  -- and I’ll work on her. No, no, no, you can leave her there and I’ll put her in a pen overnight. You can pick her up in the morning. Okay, I’ll meet you there in ten.” 

Owen stepped a few feet away to give her reasonable space for the conversation, but he’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t listening. And, all assumptions made, she wouldn’t be in business if she were putting  _humans_  in a pen, so he made the quick assumption that she was a  _veterinarian._

Which would make sense, given her ringtone was a bird  _chirping_. 

As her voice filtered out, Owen turned around with a firm smirk breaking at his lips. “Is Duchess going to --” 

_Where the fuck did she go?_

He sighed and tucked a hand inside his bomber jacket, shaking his head as he peered back inside the ballroom until the glittering silver caught his eye. Laying on top of the brick wall was what appeared to be her silver coat, and sticking out was her stethoscope. She would probably be needing that. 

Grabbing hold of the clothing, Owen set off to find Lowery and after finding Zara to wish her a happy birthday, he excused himself from the party with the all too common lie. Jet lag. 

He wasn’t proud, but he had a certain veterinarian’s clinic to find and, even if he’d have to wait until morning, he had some Googling to do. 

* * *

 

As always, a humongous thank you to my raptor dream-team: @amelias-obsessions, @clawengradearings-world, @poeticandvaguelysweet, @captainandbucky, @lannisterslioness, @verxxotle, @cali-forniacationn, @endearing-claire, @firestarter91, @all--the--dancers, and I’m sure there are so many of you that I’m forgetting to tag, and I profusely apologize.


	2. You're the Cure, You're the Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay. So, I didn’t exactly get the memo when I started writing this chapter that it would nearly reach 8,000 words. However, I couldn’t stop typing and sigh. I really hope y’all like the outcome of it. I know there’s a time-jump in the middle of it, but I needed to do it simply for the fact that writing an entire week of what they do day-in and day-out at the clinic and kennel would have been so fucking monotonous. Anyway, I love y’all for sticking close and being so damn loyal. I say it all the time, but this fandom is one hell of a damn good family. (You don’t need to say it -- I know most of you are thinking ‘where the hell is my BTL update that I was promised?’ Don’t get the pitchforks out just yet, loves. Enjoy this piece.

There was nothing sketchy about spending  _hours_ into the early morning Googling a veterinarian clinic, all while  _only_  being able to use the name of the vet who worked there. 

No, the  _only_ sketchy part was how long it took and what Owen had found on the way. He’d found nearly every article she ever wrote while studying for her doctorate, including a video of her time spent at Saint Croix Zoological Park studying the behavior of African Elephants, under the wing of Dr. Henry Wu. 

Every single thing he’d found brought him to the surprisingly small animal clinic with her name on the marquee outside. 

_Hoover City Animal Clinic, Dr. Claire Dearing._

Of course, Owen knew he could’ve asked Lowery where the clinic was, but then his best friend would ask questions. Or, he’d throw the first punch. He’d been specific with his warnings; don’t mess with Claire. He’d also mentioned about the fire-laced woman being  _vulnerable,_ and Owen had already made his own assumptions about that. There was not a single vulnerable bone in her body. He’d watched her closely the night before and had smirked at the confidence she exuded when she walked through the room. Yet, it had been shrugged away once she’d escaped outside to be by herself. It wasn’t vulnerability; it seemed like she just needed a break.

He, of all people, could understand that. 

The small bell that was attached to the door rang as he stepped inside, suddenly hit with the most alluring of scents that caused him to grip her jacket the slightest bit.  _Lavender_? In a  _vet_  clinic? Surely it wasn’t. Deep in thought over the inability to put his finger on the distinct smell, he missed the woman standing before him, waving her hand back and forth to promote an introduction.

“Excuse me, are you here to pick up or...” She cocked her head to the side when she realized he wasn’t going to answer and reached out to cup his shoulder. Shook from the debilitating scene replaying before his eyes, Owen suddenly jumped back and narrowed his gaze at the red-head. Didn’t she realize that  _personal space_ was a real thing?

“Are you...” 

She had features that were strikingly similar to Claire’s and Owen found himself wondering if she had failed to mention having a  _twin_. Although, on further inspection as his eyes drifted further south, he could tell  _this_  was not the woman he’d seen the night before. 

“I’m Karen,” she thrusted her hand out to grab his, waiting until he reached for hers and, when he didn’t, she sighed. “I’m assuming that you’re looking for Claire?” 

Of course he was. 

Without another word, Karen disappeared into the back of the clinic and began searching the rooms for her younger sister until realizing that she would certainly be in her office. She lifted a feeble hand to the door and knocked once until there was no response, and only then did she reach to the handle and slowly turned it, peering inside the darkened room. “Claire?” 

A soft noise, one that indicated her sister was very much alive, came from the small lounge chair in the corner. Karen remembered when her sister had bought the building and decided that she’d chose the  _smallest_  room in the place as her office.  _That_  was Claire in a nutshell. 

She had measured the amount of space she had for a desk, chair, and  _something_  she could lounge in to ensure she’d have a place to sleep if she needed to pull an all-nighter. Not that it happened often, but she’d learned her lesson after she had to sleep on  _concrete_  the night she was waiting for a dapple-grey mare to give birth to her foal. 

Karen also knew her sister would  _never_  openly admit to defeat. Which was why she was nearly passed out in her office. Karen had long since stopped asking her sister if she could offer any help; there was nothing she could do for the daily migraines Claire suffered and, even if there were, Claire would never let her offer. Often, the oldest Dearing thought that her sister would eventually stop carrying around the guilt of their parents’ death. It didn't help that Karen had encouraged Claire to speak with a counselor during high school and, at the first meeting when the man suggested that Claire  _let go_  of the past, she told him to kindly ‘ _fuck off’_ and left the appointment. That was the last time Karen intervened. 

“Claire, there’s a guy here for you... I  _think_  he might be carrying your stethoscope?” At this, Claire groaned. With a raging migraine that had started merely minutes after the last patient had left, she was hoping to earn at least an hour of sleep before starting the evening duties at the kennel. “All right, I’ll be out in a few minutes.” As Karen started to walk away, Claire sighed, “wait, just send him back here, please? And flip the light on, too.” 

Slowly, she sat up and tugged a hair through her blazing locks, rolling her eyes until she was reminded by the throbbing ache that  _that_ hurt, too. Before she attempted to stand, Claire shrugged out of her white coat and rested her head back, gathering both hands in her lap. Gingerly, she began to pinch the skin between her thumb and forefinger, one of the most common points of releasing pent-up tension. 

She didn't hear Owen as he stepped into her office, nor did Claire open her eyes as he perched both hands on her wooden desk, staring at her. Owen soaked in her features, watching as her lips parted and each formed a soft curve in the flush skin. She furrowed her eyebrows, creating a tight crease and he couldn’t help but grimace. Without thinking, he soundlessly moved to stand beside her and, just as he reached out to touch her neck, he thought better of surprising her. 

“Keep your eyes closed, I want to try something.” Unsure why he was  _commanding_  her to follow his orders -- assuming it was the Ranger in him that had yet to filter out -- Owen paused for a moment longer to see if she would protest. It wasn’t like he had a single damn right to touch her, but the fact that she wasn’t shoving his hands away made him relax. Owen sidled past the chair to stand behind her, heedfully realizing that she was straining to stay relaxed. He found himself unable to speak, the words caught in a tight knot deep in his throat. 

The squeak of a whimper that escaped from her was enough to have him changing his ways in a heartbeat. “Just relax, you’re fine,” he breathed out slowly and rested both hands at the base of her neck, pressing his thumbs into pivotal points on either side of her spine. She wasn’t the only one who knew a bit about the art of acupressure. Hell, during his time overseas, there wasn’t always access to the simplest of medical interventions and, after a while, Owen began to realize that using the body as its own source of medication was sometimes easier than using  _drugs_. 

“Wait,” Claire’s breathing shallowed as she leaned forward to clasp both hands between her knees.  _Something’s wrong,_ she remembered telling her mom on that fateful day.  _Mommy, something’s wrong with Dad!_ Her chest tightened with the fear of the past, not realizing that she was gasping for a single breath by the time Owen had rounded the chair and kneeled in front of her, nudging himself between her legs. 

“Claire,” he reached up to cup her jaw, trying to lift her gaze, but stopped the second he felt her resist, “there’s no rush, just breathe with me, okay?”

She barely heard his words over the sound of blood rushing through her ears, drowning out anyone’s help. It was as if her body was torturing her just for the sake of it, but she could feel his rough fingertips gliding over her chin, moving to tuck a piece of hair that had fallen in her view. It didn’t matter; all Claire could see was the mangled piece of metal her father was thrown from. 

They said she wouldn’t remember. 

They said she wouldn’t have the nightmares.

They said she wouldn't wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. 

“Please,” her voice tensed as she tried to speak, “just take the pain away. I’ll do whatever I have to for the pain to just go away.” The physical pain was bad enough, but to have reprieve from the mental toll was everything she craved. 

 _Ouch._ The twitching pain in his chest focused his attention even further until it nipped again, twisting alongside the curve of his arm where his shoulder met his chest. There was no way he’d pulled a muscle while sleeping, but on the other hand sleeping on an actual mattress and not a  _hospital cot_  was a change he’d surely have to become accustomed to. 

Was it...  _no._  He didn’t have  _emotions_  any longer, or so he had tried (and failed) to convince himself of. 

There wasn't a word he could say that could take away the pain she felt, and because he wasn’t going to pry his way into her life without her consent, Owen made himself comfortable kneeling in front of her, allowing Claire to rest her cheek in the palm of his hand as her eyes drifted closed.

“I can’t take away the pain, but I’ll be here as long as you want me to be,” Owen promised. He certainly had no right to be, but there was just  _something_  about her that made him want more. Owen noticed the night before that she had the slightest look in her eyes that clung to his soul and he couldn’t shake it. He’d been  _caught_. 

Whether that was a good or bad thing he had failed to decipher quite yet. 

* * *

 

The first thing Claire noticed when she woke up were the faint voices talking around her, and only one belonged to her sister. 

 _Owen?_ What was he doing?  _And_  Lowery? 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

Claire sat up and instantly realized just exactly why she was in her  _bed,_ minus the fact that she had absolutely no idea how she’d gotten there. Yet, the fact that there were three people standing  _somewhere_ in her house told her something _._  The ocean whooshed through one ear and out the other as she made the unmistakeable sounds of a farm animal going through heat just as her head hit the pillow. 

In an instant Lowery was standing at her side with a washcloth in one hand and a small cup of a pastel-pink liquid in the other. “Here,” he quietly whispered and reached out to hand her what she’d recognized as anti-nausea medicine, nodding at it only a second later, “take this.” 

“How --” 

“You passed out at the clinic...” He sighed and reached down to pat the bed haphazardly, figuring out where her legs were before deciding it was safe to sit, leaning back on his arm. “And Owen carried you over here.” 

Was it just luck that she lived between the clinic and the kennel? Granted, it wasn’t a short walk and involved going over a hill to the valley where her home sat, but it gave a new meaning to taking work home, especially when it came in the form of animals  _following_ her across the field. 

“He  _carried_  me?” Great, so he was giving a whole new meaning to being a hero, right? 

Which was really just great. It wasn’t like he hadn’t already shaken Claire to her very core by appearing in their small town. It’d merely been a day since they met and already he was inserting himself into pieces of her life that just didn’t match up. 

He was in her house, for fuck’s sake. 

There was a soft knock at the door, and by the time Claire lifted her head, the man of the hour was peeking his head around the doorframe. “Hey, can I come in?”  _Oh sure, come on in. After all, you’re the one who_ carried _me while I was passed out. Did I fucking drool on you? I’ll make sure to have that dry-cleaned for you._

“Sure, come on in. I think we’re having a party, anyway.” Her tone lacked the finality of sarcasm that she wished for, but given the state she was in, Claire figured she was lucky to squeeze out a friendly tone. However, it didn’t mean that Owen took the metaphorical beating, though. He held both hands up in defense and faked a short laugh until he felt comfortable enough to lean back against the wall. 

“I was just asking Lowery here about all the work that I left piled on my desk. Would it be too much to assume that you finished any of it while I’ve been sleeping?” Claire flashed a quick smirk in Lowery’s direction before adverting her gaze to Owen. Why the hell he had to be so goddamn gorgeous was beyond her knowledge. 

Just as if he’d taken a verbal-beating from Claire before, he simply rolled his eyes and scoffed. “No, I was too busy making sure you were still breathing to do any work of real importance.”  _A thank you would have been nice, too._

“Wait,” Claire paused and her gaze danced between the two men, “how long was I out for?” It seemed awfully dark, and if she remembered correctly the last time she’d been at the clinic was in the late afternoon...

“Oh, twelve hours, but don’t worry,” Lowery reached over to rest his hand on her forearm and winked, “we made sure you were still breathing.”  _Oh, for fuck’s sake._ Claire pulled her arm away with a hasty sigh, “don’t make me punch you. We both know I will.” 

Owen watched from the corner of the room, both arms crossed over his chest, with a slick smile resting firmly on his parted lips. How he hadn’t seen it before was unknown, but these two had  _nothing_  between them; hell, they fought like siblings. Plus, he hadn’t missed the short glances she threw his direction, either. Not that he was going to let it inflate his ego. 

Not yet. 

As much as the words had seemed to go right over her head, Claire was left reeling minutes later when the news of it being  _twelve_ hours later skimmed the surface of her memory. “Shit, that means --” before she could wait for the speculation to be confirmation, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and reached out for the nightstand, complete with both legs wobbling beneath her. 

Here’s the thing, though. Quivering, unsteady legs are  _only_  cute on new-born fawns. 

It didn’t take long for the room to begin an orbit around her and Claire reached for the wall; as if it would save her from going down like a wrecked building. Much to his better judgment, Owen pushed off from the wall and reached out for her, grabbing onto both arms as her legs all but collapsed. “Easy there, I’ve got ya’,” he cooed, lowering his voice as he witnessed Claire cringe, and wrapped a strong, steady arm around her waist. “You have to be more careful when you’re trying to sprint, Speedy.” 

It if weren’t for the fact that her mouth had suddenly gone dry with his  _arm_  pressing tightly to her waist, rubbing against her skin where her shirt had ridden up the slightest bit, Claire would have been able to say  _something_. Honestly. Anything. 

“The kennel has been taken care of for the night,” Karen breathed as she stepped to the threshold of her sister’s bedroom, peering in with caution, unsure what she would find. Before she could even react to the idea that Owen was getting touchy with her baby sister and regret the olive-branch she’d offered him earlier, she cleared her throat, “thanks to Owen.” 

Claire stilled on the edge of the bed before she was able to fully comprehend what her sister had said.  _Owen?_  He did  _what?_  It had sounded like Owen had done work for  _her_  for nothing more than just the satisfaction of being able to say he had (and maybe not even that?) but clearly she’d heard wrong. Before she regurgitated Karen’s previous statement, Claire titled her head back to stare up at Owen, catching a quick glimpse of the five o’clock shadow working on his clenched jaw. “You did  _what_?”

He shot a simmering glare at the older red-head before shoving both hands into the back pockets of his jeans while the thought of how it felt so strange to be out of the signature camouflage worn by the Army came back to him. “It’s nothing, I offered to help out around the kennel once Karen came over her to watch over you. I served with a division of military canines while on my first tour in Afghanistan, so it comes easily.” When he spotted the familiar look that Claire was going to pass out -- this time over how  _dreamy_  he was -- he found himself passing a low growl. “It’s nothing, honestly. And if you need the help tomorrow while you’re still recovering, it’s no problem.” 

Claire knew without looking that Karen was nodding, desperate for the help at the kennel. It had been Claire’s dream to have an operational clinic  _and_  kennel, but when their summer help, Lowery’s younger brother Army Specialist Logan Cruthers, had been deployed only three months prior, things hit a stand-still on the  _operational_  side of things, and became purely chaotic. 

It didn’t take much to know that Karen was  _begging_  purely with looks when the silence invaded the room. “Okay, okay,  _okay,”_ Claire sighed with a soft shake of her head before she lay back down, “you’re hired. You can start tomorrow morning at four, and don’t be late.  _They’ll_  know.” 

* * *

 

A week later and, even though Claire and Lowery had made bets on how long he’d last, Owen had yet to tire of working at the kennel twice a day. As a matter of fact, he was actually  _enjoying_  himself. Not that he’d ever admit that to Lowery. It was the fact that he had reason and a  _place_  in this small town that was stirring up a want to stay, but he knew it wouldn’t last for long. He wasn’t the kind of guy to settle; the most he’d ever committed in his life was for the military, and even  _that_  had proven it had consequences. 

Working with animals again felt natural. While he’d worked with dogs for a few months in Afghanistan and the idea of going back made him sick, he’d been enjoying the morning runs he took, even if it left him with weak legs. Clearly he’d been out of shape when it came to running any terrain that wasn’t as flat as a treadmill. 

“Dude,” he inhaled a large breath of what would be fresh air, only to be hit square in the face with the undeniable scent of none other than dog shit. Lowery held up a hand that would’ve pushed Owen clear across the room if he had super-strength and clasped the other over his mouth. “You need to go outside and strip before coming back in.” Before he could take back the words, Lowery was tripping over himself in the need to escape the foyer from lack of oxygen. 

“You’re a dick,” Owen hissed and continued further inside only to kick his shoes off by the door. So what if he needed a shower; at least he’d been  _working._ Slightly miffed from the exhaustion of the day, Owen grabbed for a glass to fill with water when he was hit with the onslaught of questions. 

“Anyway, why are you being so pissy?” Lowery flung the words over his shoulder before he gave his friend a quick once-over. Before he had the chance to make a run for it, Owen stopped dead in his tracks and turned towards Lowery. They’d discussed Claire plenty during the week he’d been living with Lowery, and even more when he started working for Claire.  _‘It’s all temporary,’_  he preached, and Lowery would shoot him the same goddamn look every time before he would sigh,  _‘It doesn’t have to be, you know’._ Of course he knew that; he didn’t fly to Bumfuck, Wisconsin to just ride out the high of being done with physical therapy. He’d gone because he had no place else, because he didn’t feel he belonged anywhere else. And now? Now that he had reason for being there? He was convinced it didn’t change a single damn thing. Lowery, however, was certain he could change Owen’s mind. 

“I’m having dinner with Claire tonight and I’m all ready running that, that’s why I’m pissy. So, if you don’t mind.” He sidled past Lowery and started back towards the guest room before turning at the growl in his best friend’s voice. 

“Remember what I said,” he warned. At the threat, Owen rolled his eyes and set off to the bathroom, all the while thinking of asshole-comments he could reply with, but the only one that stuck was sure to earn him a fist to the face. And something told him that would start his evening with Claire off on a bad note.

* * *

 

“All right, all right, I get it, Karen. Now leave before I decide to make you stay and help clean up this mess I’ve created.” Smoothing a hand over her stomach, trying to brush away a wrinkle in her shirt, Claire sighed with enough force to create an earthquake. What was meant to be a dinner cooked by herself for Owen, mostly to thank him for the work he’s put into the kennel over the past week, was turning out to be a disaster of epic proportions. The garlic bread she’d tried desperately to not burn had turned out blacker than the shingles on her house and the garlic smelled like rotting cat food. Go fucking figure. 

With the mention of being forced to help, Karen all but ran from the house once she grabbed her purse and promised she’d come in a few minutes early the following morning to get the scoop. Claire, on the other hand, had zero idea what her sister was talking about, because it wasn’t like she was going to invite him to stay the night.  Oh no. No, no, no. She’d thought of far worse. 

Claire barely had enough time to shower the scent of various farm animals from her skin and slide into clothes that did not resemble a veterinarian before she heard the doorbell. Honestly, she was convinced it had stopped working, considering anyone who came to her house never used it. Padding her way to the foyer with her hair still wrapped in a towel, she pulled the door open to reveal Owen in his gloriousness. Only after she made a note to stop thinking of him in only sexual ways and view him as an employee (which also made her want to vomit from being old enough to have employees) Claire pulled the door open further to allow him inside. “I’m sorry, it’s rude to make people wait outside, isn’t it?” The expression she held on her features said it all: ‘please don’t ask why my house smells like dead cat.’ 

Owen gave a friendly smile before he pointed to her head, “you do know that your hair is still wrapped in a towel, right?” The comment wasn’t the slightest bit insulting. None, whatsoever. 

Instead, Claire reached up to rest a hand on her head and felt the soft cotton texture of the seafoam towel that she had tied her hair into only moments after escaping the torturous, scalding waterfall. “Oh, right. Thanks for reminding me.” Backing up slowly as she pulled her hair out of the confinement, Claire caught a quick sight of his gaze drifting down her body and couldn’t help the way it made her tingle. Suddenly, she was caught in an inferno without a way to douse the flames. So she decided to switch the subject. 

“Before I forget to mention it, I killed dinner. Wait --” she growled at her poor attempt to make a joke and swallowed thickly, “I didn’t kill dinner, I wrecked it. Not that I hit an animal, though.” In a last attempt to make sense of what she said, Claire lifted a hand and pointed toward the kitchen where the destroyed garlic bread was still sitting out on the counter, waiting to cool until she could throw it into the trash, and the spaghetti sauce, the same that had burnt and was stuck to the bottom of the pan with chunks of molten-lava sauce spread  over the side and onto the stove was very much in plain sight. 

“Go ahead, go look, but only if you promise not to laugh.”

Slightly terrified of what he would find, Owen shrugged out of his bomber jacket before he edged into the kitchen, grimacing at the sight.  _Damn, she wasn’t kidding._

“I -- uh, not to be rude, but I hardly think anything is edible, so why don’t we decide on take-out?” Owen had been looking forward to her cooking, only because Lowery had complained for a solid thirty minutes about how jealous he was that Claire was cooking for  _Owen_ when he wasn’t even invited. He turned a circle in the small kitchen and stared at the row of drawers next to the stove, eyeing them carefully. “Where do you keep your take-out menus?” 

Still unable to get past the idea that he wasn’t going to  _leave_ because she’d ruined the entire dinner, Claire nodded towards the top drawer before reaching out to press a hand to his chest. “Hang on, I’ll grab them --” 

Owen stepped forward to the middle of the kitchen before Claire could stop him and reached for the handle, pulling it open as a hoard of menus fell onto the floor. Behind him, Claire clasped a hand over her mouth as the onslaught of laughter escaped, forcing her to bite into her bottom lip to stifle the sounds after a moment. “Here, let me --  _ah_ ,” she should’ve known that it was a poor decision to try and help pick up the brochures. However, in typical Claire-fashion she leaned over just as he stood, resulting in the back of his head ramming into her nose, eliciting a round of fiery-words to escape. 

_Why are there so many stars in the house?_

It wasn’t until Owen had grabbed her by the arms and was lifting her to sit on the counter that she noticed the small pool of blood that had gathered on the floor, and the crimson speckles soaking into her denim-clad thigh. 

“Would you sit still?” He groaned, grabbing for the roll of paper-towels and attempted to rip a sheet off with one hand as he reached for the back of her head with the other. “Lean your head forward,” he commanded as Claire tried to bat his hands away. 

“Gloves,” she hissed and pointed down, somewhere below the counter, but he couldn’t care less. Yes, maybe it was a health hazard, but so was the fact that she was losing more blood than anyone should from a  _nose bleed_. Instead he settled for rolling his eyes and, once he'd been able to hold her head slightly forward with the paper towel pressing against her nose for a few minutes, all while Claire sassed off with one remark after another, he slowly pulled his hands away, cautious that the bleeding could start again. “How’re you feeling?” 

Claire shot him a quick glare, “oh, just  _ducky.”_

Despite the fact that her bitch-pants had made a sudden appearance, Claire leaned back against the upper cabinets and closed her eyes, hoping the rest of the night would just disappear. She’d already made a fool of herself when it came to trying to  _cook_ , and even if the night wasn’t about trying to impress him, she had still wanted to  _try._

 _Why? This isn’t a_ date. 

Then again, who said it wasn’t? And, why was he always saving her?

He gave himself a moment to consider her before he glanced towards the menus that littered the kitchen floor, shrugging towards her. “How about you get changed and I’ll gather up a variety of menus and we can meet on the couch to decide what we’ll get for dinner?” 

Once they’d agreed on the grounds of splitting up for a bit and he  _lifted_  her off the counter to make sure she didn’t exert herself more than she need, Claire was off and running. Well, running was pushing it a bit much. 

While he watched her walk out of the kitchen and down the hallway until she disappeared from sight, Owen sighed heavily and turned back to the counter, gripping the edge with both hands.  _Don’t turn around, again. Don’t look for her._ It was impossible, really. It wasn’t a conscious effort to watch when she did the simplest actions. He’d worked with her for  _one_   _week_  and Owen was sure he’d all ready lost his mind. It was the tiny mannerisms that brought him back to life. The way she’d reach up and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear like she’d caught another one of life’s secrets and was  _dying_  to tell someone about it but wild about protecting it. Or, at night when they were locking up the kennel, she’d walk a dozen or so steps away from the back door in the direction of her house before she swiveled around and darted back to ensure she’d  _actually_  locked up. Not to mention that, after the second night, he had stopped trying to reassure Claire; she had to see it with her own eyes. 

Once he moved into the living room and sat down on the sofa to wait for her to come around, he couldn’t help but think what she was doing in the room just feet away. 

Claire, on the other hand, was talking herself down from a full-fledged panic attack. It wasn’t enough that the blood stain on her jeans sent her reeling back to the night her parents died with her in the backseat of the crimson-red SUV, but with her hand clasped over her mouth to aid in stifling the noise (all because she would  _not_  have him rescuing her  _again_ ) it was needless to say that she was seconds from letting him find her collapsed on the floor. “ _Ten, nine, eight,”_ she began the technique that she’d learned years before from the  _ninth_  shrink Karen had sent her to, promising that if Claire didn’t  _try_  it would be the last effort from her. “ _Seven, six, five_...” She continued the countdown as she felt her breathing calm and the blood flow returned to her extremities, tingling into her toes and fingers as she wiggled each together, thankful to still be standing. 

That was until she heard him yelling for her. Claire paused, frozen in a precarious position, leaning against the wall with no form of clothing on the southern half of her body. Well, unless the grey g-string counted, which she hardly figured it would. 

“Yeah, I’m coming!” 

_Great choice of words, idiot._

For sake of saving time, Claire reached for the grey and white striped sweat pants she had folded on the end of her bed and shook them out before stepping into them, tying the band at the waist, and set off down the hallway with a precarious smile plastered to her features. 

“What’s wrong?” They were the first words out of his mouth when he saw her  _bouncing_ down the hallway and knew she was covering up a lie that was waiting to be told. For the sake of making certain she didn’t collapse, he stood and pointed to the couch cushion, “sit.” 

Without inching another step closer, Claire looked up to meet his gaze before tilting her head to the side as all feigning expressions met their fate, “excuse me?” She didn’t take orders very well and, at the least, he could have added a  _‘please’_ to the end, but Owen wasn’t in the mood to play that game. He moved easily around the coffee table and, upon realizing he needed to soften his approach, gingerly reached out for her hand. “Come and sit, please? We have menus to peruse and, if you hadn’t noticed, the night isn’t getting any younger.” She was unable to avoid letting her gaze drop to his lips, watching as he spoke, and undeniably parting the slightest bit as a secondary reaction. Before she could speak he had ahold of her hand and was leading her towards the couch, only sitting after she was tucked against the side, and spread the brochures between them. “While you were taking an hour to get dressed, I sorted through these. We have four categories to choose from; Italian, Mexican, Asian, or American. Which would you prefer?” 

After much debate, which quickly turned into a ‘mine is better than yours’ childish argument, it was eventually decided they would order pizza. Then there was the discussion of what toppings they would add. While Owen was one-hundred and fifty percent in vote for the  _‘manly’_ pizza, which really just consisted of a fuck-ton of meat, and Claire preferred something along the line of  _only_ mushrooms dotting hers, it came down to having to order  _two_  pizzas. 

Because God forbid they  _split_  one and have separate sides. 

* * *

 

Time passed easily as they situated themselves to watch TV and quietly munched on pizza (once the delivery kid  _finally_  found where she lived, but not before mentioning that she should consider moving from ‘ _bum-fuck nowhere_ ’). Claire blocked herself against the arm of the couch while Owen sat only inches in front of her, leaning back against her leg. It was strange how they could be so close to each other in such little time, but there was something about Owen that made Claire peer over the  _first_  brick wall of her outer protection. Maybe it was the fact that he was just as quiet that didn't alarm her like it might others. But Claire set off alarms for him. She was overwhelmingly beautiful and it didn't take but a moment of staring to get lost in her emerald orbs. She was far more intoxicating than any drug she could ever inflict on him. 

Before she realized, Owen had snuck the remote from her grip and had turned on Netflix, making it to the next episode of  _Arrow_ as the opening credits rolled. “If you could have any superpower,” he started, not taking his eyes off the screen, “what would it be? Would you want to fly? X-ray vision, perhaps? That would go over well for being a veterinarian. You would know the problem most of the time before ever speaking to the owner.” 

As if she was taking her time to mull over her options, when really she just wanted the extra moment to stare at the orgasmic-handsome-goodness that was Oliver Queen. “The ability to read minds,” she grinned dutifully, backing her answer with both arms crossed over her chest as if she needed to defend herself, “but I wouldn’t abuse it, y’know?” 

_Only when it comes to wanting to know what others are thinking._

Now  _that_  was counter-intuitive. 

Without a word, Owen reached over to lay his licked-clean plate on the coffee table before he was able to turn towards Claire, watching as her eyes danced from his, to the screen and back.  _Tell me what I know you’re dying to say._ “If you had the power, would you want to know what I’m thinking right now?” 

Claire scoffed and eventually trailed off to laughter as her gaze dropped to his hand that was resting on her upper thigh. Did she want to know? What if is  _wasn’t_  something she wanted to hear? What if he was thinking about being anyplace other than with her? Did he even  _want_  to be there, or was he doing it simply to pacify her? 

Being ballsy wasn’t exactly her game, but on a whim, Claire nodded, “sure.” 

Owen slowly leaned over her, reaching back to support himself with a hand gripping the edge of the couch, the other pressing against her thigh, “maybe you could say it with some conviction, Claire.  _Sure_  doesn’t exactly sound like someone who wants to know what I want to do right now.” She inhaled sharply in contrast with his dark voice, and was rendered to merely nod. 

“I want to know what you’re thinking,” she revised, reaching up to grip his bicep, barely able to get her small hand around half of the muscle.  _For fuck’s sake._ Where she found the heart to start demanding answers, she had not a single clue, but once Claire opened herself to it, the questions piled up.“I want to know why you’re here when you don’t  _have_  to be. Why  _here_? Why  _here_  with  _me_?” 

When he was in the military, and long before he ever enlisted, Owen had made a pact with himself that feelings, as far as he was concerned, weren’t meant to be felt. Maybe by the rest of the world, but surely not by him. If he let himself  _think_  while he spent  _days_  awake while on patrol in Kandahar, it meant risking the possibility that his fellow soldiers would be put at risk. So for the years he spent overseas, it was easier to just turn it all  _off._  He flipped the switch after he learned in basic training, also known as Hell on Earth, that being a  _Ranger_  didn’t equate to having  _feelings._ When they were allowed leaves during each tour, Owen had grown so accustomed to not growing attached to people that he had barely remembered what it felt like, until he was  _forced_  to relive some of his darkest memories from his time spent in the military while he spent six months in rehab as he recovered from his injuries. 

He thought he’d be able to continue the ruse when he came to the small town. Then he met  _her._ Sure, they’d only known each other for a week, but Owen knew that something had changed. He smiled more in the past seven days than he had in  _years,_ and that wasn’t even the problem. 

He was  _feeling_  again. 

“Why not?” He countered without a speck of a smirk resting on his lips. “What if I said I’m here because it’s where I’m meant to be?” 

The eager smile that had snuck to her features was wiped at his response and her hand fell from his arm. “I don’t believe that for a single fucking second. If there’s one thing I know it’s that you don’t believe in fate, or faith, or fucking  _magic._ And I don’t know why I even care, but I do, all right? Is that so fucking hard to believe?” 

Owen paused, his lips parted as he watched her pant heavily, unable to catch her breath. Here they were, friends (did  _she_  consider him such?) for merely a week and all ready he’d worked her up. 

Hell, he’d dreamt about it enough. 

“Do you want to know why I’m here? Why I  _like_  being here?” Owen growled the words, harsh in his scratchy voice as he felt the emotion creeping up his throat, threatening to choke him if he spoke another word. “I’m here because I don’t have to think when I’m around you, goddamnit Claire. I don’t have to think about my fucking past or where the future is going to take me or if I even give a damn if there  _is_  one. I’m  _existing_  and it’s all I’ve wanted for  _six goddamn months.”_ Owen didn’t slow down in his rampage as he threw himself away from the couch and rounded the coffee table in such a fury that all Claire saw was a flash of his blonde hair before he’d disappeared around the corner and into the kitchen, leaving her swept up in his windstorm. 

_Give him time. He needs to cool off._

That advice was for the fucking devil for all she cared. Claire couldn’t stop herself as she stalked off towards the kitchen, tracking the path of the tornado until she found him, his back turned towards her as he stood over the sink, his hands gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles were ghostly white and his shoulders shook with the rage beating through his veins. One word would send him unraveling over the edge and it was the last thing he wanted  _her_ of all people to see. They’d warned him about this. They’d advised him to not let the unreeling emotions back until he knew, without a doubt, that he could handle it. Right now? He couldn’t, but what terrified him more was what would happen to  _Claire._

“ _Owen_.” Her voice was calm, gentle even, but despite the fact that he felt like he was hearing her standing at one end of the wind tunnel while he was jammed inside, Owen knew she wasn’t advancing towards him. 

She was smarter than that. 

If there was any one thing Claire had  _ever_  learned about dealing with her own PTSD was that she could identify it in others. That wasn’t to say that every case of post-traumatic stress disorder that was ever diagnosed had the same signs and symptoms -- that thought alone was laughable. Hell, there were times she had a conversation with someone while, inside her head, she was fighting the urge to pull away, sink to the floor, and rock herself into oblivion. From the way he stood, hunched over the counter and trembling, it was obvious he felt like a caged animal. With that reminder, Claire took a step back so she  _wasn’t_  blocking the only exit from the kitchen. 

Minutes later, even as he began to calm down, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Not when he knew what she would say, or the expression that would ultimately be plastered to her face. She’d feel sorry for him and say that if he wanted to talk, she was open ears. Before asking, she might step in to embrace him without even realizing that being  _confined_  was his biggest fear after coming down from an attack. Yet, there was something oddly comforting of knowing he’d have a warm body to share silence with. That was if she wasn’t too terrified to be near him. 

Claire caught herself gasping quietly when she tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling, catching his gaze in the process. No longer was he leaning over the counter and gasping for his life; he had moved closer, only a counter separating them, and he was staring at her. 

For a split second, Claire could’ve sworn she’d never seen his eyes so deep. They were the most perfect hue of blue, mixed with icy crystals that only made her want to stare. Was he trying to hint; were his eyes  _actually_ a crystal ball that would tell her future? 

Who the fuck was she kidding? 

“Claire...” He started with a soft voice but, as soon as she held a hand up, he knew it was worthless. The second vote of confidence was the soft smile she wore, the same one that had welcomed him in a week ago. It wasn’t so much the fact that he’d never had something like  _this_  in his life before; it was more the realization that  _this_ was something worth sticking around for. 

 _Please, it’s been a fucking week. And your mission wasn’t to come here and_ settle _. It was to_ relax. 

While jammed into his own thoughts, Owen had failed to realize that she was rounding the counter and stepping towards him, wrapping her arms around his chest. It wasn’t exactly something he’d seen her do (granted they’d been around  _animals_  for the entire week) but the instinct to hold her closer when Claire rested her head against his chest was unreal. Before he could stop himself, Owen had protectively cornered her against the wall, pressing his body against hers to be  _closer_. The aroma of strawberries and lavender invaded his senses as he thought of her in the shower and soon snaked a single hand along her spine before tangling into her fiery locks. 

It was the hold he had enveloped her in that made Claire second-guess every single rule she’d made for herself over the week. They started at everything from ‘ _this is Lowery’s best friend’_ to ‘ _it just isn’t right’._ After the rocky marriage she’d suffered through, Claire had promised herself she wouldn’t  _throw_  herself into another relationship. 

 _But it’s been_ two _years._ Clearly, that held no ground. 

His lips pressed against her shoulder registered in her fuzzy mind seconds after he started, and she surely didn’t have the heart to stop him. Owen carefully skimmed over her skim before he bit into the material and dragged it away from her shoulder, thankful for the loose-fitting blouse she’d decided to wear that night. “Owen,” she breathed, never less intent on stopping him than she was in the moment as she lifted her hand to the back of his head, encouraging him to continue.

There was no stopping him now that he’d set his mind on  _her_. If they only had a night together he would be able to accept the fact in the morning, but he wasn’t willing to throw the rest of the night away just because the pit of his stomach was telling him to  _stop._  

The pit of his stomach most likely represented  _Lowery’s_ opinion, something he wasn’t keen on. 

Claire pulled back minutes later, panting and out of breath from the blaze he’d held to her skin, but she never once took her eyes away from his. Lowering her voice, Claire slowly inched her fingers down his forearm to meet his hand before lacing their fingers together. “If there’s a chance this night is going to be regretted in the morning, let’s do it right.” 

* * *

 

As always, I owe everything to those of you who make up my raptor dream-team: @amelias-obsessions, @clawengradearings-world, @poeticandvaguelysweet, @captainandbucky, @lannisterslioness, @verxxotle, @cali-forniacationn, @endearing-claire, @firestarter91, @all–the–dancers, @privatez0mbie, and I’m sure there are so many of you that I’m forgetting to tag, and I profusely apologize.

 


	3. Half of My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Now that I finally feel like I’m getting my muse back, I put this at the top of my list to update. (Considering I haven’t since the very beginning of the month... oops?) These two are slowly and surely killing me but I wouldn’t have it any other way, because, you know, I keep writing them to keep my sanity. Wink wink.

How Claire knew it would be something she regretted the next morning was beside herself, but when she woke up to an empty,  _cold_ bed, she knew the familiar vacancy settling deep in her stomach wouldn’t last for long. It never did. Truthfully, she shouldn’t have been too surprised, Lowery was the one who told her Owen wasn’t going to stay; there was no use in getting  _attached_  to someone who couldn’t, and wouldn’t, settle down.

Yet, as she lay in bed, refusing to get up and show her face to the rest of the world, she couldn’t help but smirk at the tension strung through her upper thighs, curving until it reached the apex between her legs. She’d lost count of the times they started, and stopped, the night before, each exhausting their need more than the time before, until Owen had been painfully gripping her hips and thrusting deep inside of her as if it were the last life-line he had left and it was quickly disappearing. If she looked, Claire was sure she’d find the impressions of his fingertips permanently burnt into her skin. A girl could hope, at the very least. She barely had the time to commit him to memory; to trace the indents in his toned chest and to take a moment to realize that there had been a time where he was near death in battle. Claire didn’t want to invade his mind with questions, she just wanted to soak in his embrace and listen to his racing heart. 

And now, just as warned, he was gone.

* * *

 

Lowery knew. He knew that morning when he woke up to the sound of the front door shutting and, in a split-second attempt to grab the gun from the safe under his bed, saw Owen’s bare feet padding down the hallway. Owen hadn’t gone for a run; he would’ve kept his shoes  _on_. Lowery leaned back on his heels and slowly stood, walking towards the door. “How was it? Just what you’d imagined?” 

Owen’s gaze snapped up to meet his best friend’s, but as for speaking, there wasn’t a word that could be said. Lowery knew; he didn’t know  _how_  but he knew they’d slept together. In a fucked up world, maybe he had gone over to Claire’s house the night before and wanted to join them for dinner, but heard Claire screaming his name instead.  _That_  wouldn’t have been awkward, not at all. And, as much as he  _wanted_ to play coy and not have a single idea what Lowery was talking about, it wasn’t Owen. He was proud that he’d slept with Claire; he certainly hadn’t been  _expecting_  it and the surprise behind it continued to chill his spine. “Yeah, we had a great night, thanks for asking.” 

“Did you finally get it out of your system, then?” Lowery crossed both arms defensive over his chest and leaned against the doorframe, “I know who you are, Owen, I know the way you work.” 

Owen scoffed and threw his head back, groaning a series of incoherent words when what he  _really_ wanted was to tell Lowery to fuck off. “You know the ‘ _way I work’?_ This isn’t any of your business, you know. We’re  _adults_ , which means we  _choose_  our own sexual partners.” 

Lowery wasn't jealous,  _no._  He was ever protective --  ~~and maybe the slightest bit jealous that _Owen_ of all people had touched Claire~~ -- and knew what was good enough for Claire. And that, unfortunately, was not Owen Grady. It wasn’t just a personal vendetta against his best friend since he’d arrived in their small Wisconsin town: it was the simple, yet truthful fact, that Claire deserved the best any man had to offer. 

“You might be an adult, but I’m not going to stand here and watch you hurt my best friend! She’s vulnerable, and --” 

Before he could get another word in, Owen crossed the distance between them and jammed his shoulder back against the wall, pressing the heel of his hand against the guy’s chest. “Don’t fucking play that card anymore, Lowery. She isn’t  _vulnerable_ , and if that’s all you see when you look at her, then I guess I can understand why you’re so goddamn protective of her. She doesn’t need someone to  _save_  her. She isn’t looking for a goddamn superhero, and I’m sorry if you thought you could be it for her, but you aren’t. She doesn’t  _need_  that.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, you’ve discovered what she  _needs_  in the week that you’ve been here?” With all the upper-arm strength he had, Lowery grabbed Owen’s arm and flung him to the side, forcing the other man to stumble a few steps to regain balance. What would it take for this guy to slip over the edge? Sure, they’d had their spats while deployed, but neither had ever intended on  _hurting_  the other. “I am  _so_  sick of watching you think  _you’re_  the fucking hero in every goddamn story.” 

Owen knew when to take a hint and from years of being around Lowery, he knew when the dark and twisted thoughts in the man’s head were going to explode, leaving broken shards jammed into those in his vicinity. But, because he was the jerk who wanted to entice  _everyone_  in his path, Owen smirked and began to retreat down the hallway before glancing back over his shoulder. “You know what I’m tired of? I’m fucking tired of everyone assuming I want to be the hero when for once maybe I’m the one who needs to be saved.”

* * *

 

_“Claire, hey, it’s Lowery. Listen, I know about you and Owen but that isn’t exactly the importance of why I’m leaving this goddamn voicemail. I haven't seen him since this morning and now it’s almost fucking midnight and he still isn’t here. All he has with him is the fucking clothes he left with, and I’m sure his phone and wallet, but just... if he’s with you, can you just text me to let me know? Thanks.”_

An hour had passed since Claire listened to his voicemail and still she hadn’t texted Lowery to tell him she knew where Owen was. Hell, she could tell him the coordinates, if it would make him feel better, but there was an inking suspicion that Lowery wouldn’t be happy knowing that Owen was in her bed. 

More specifically, as Claire sat up in bed and cradled her phone in between both hands, Owen was sound asleep next to her with an arm slung across her thighs as if he were trying to hold her to the bed amidst being asleep. She was smart enough to know that Lowery wouldn’t approve of Owen being there, especially after their rendezvous the night before, yet Claire found herself growing tired of always thinking about what Lowery thought was best for her. If she had a dollar for every time he’d told her to ‘be careful’ over the course of the week, she’d have enough money to renovate the kennel. Which needed it. 

He’d shown up on her doorstep in the early evening just as she was pulling the mac and cheese off the stove, and Claire could tell from the expression he held that he was going to kill someone. It only took a moment of trying to hold a casual conversation before he exploded, cursing Lowery’s name so loud she was surprised he didn't hear him miles away. Of course Claire agreed, but she didn’t want to ruin his moment to vent. Not only had he complained about Lowery’s need to control  _everything_  and  _everyone_  in his path, but the frustration that built behind the actions. For a solid week he’d never once asked how Owen was doing; they’d never had a chance to talk about the accident, and for someone who knew the pain of being in the Army, Owen figured he’d ask. Until he hadn't.

Owen had watched Claire’s features twinge until her eyebrows were furrowed into a tight line and she cocked her head to the side. Sure, she’d noticed his slight limp, but she surely wasn’t going to be the first to ask about it. She fixed  _animals_ , humans were not part of her specialty. There was a reason she’d never gone to medical school; animals couldn’t and  _wouldn’t_ talk back. 

“What the hell are you doing?” His gruff, sleep-tinted voice shook her from the tangling thoughts, leaving Claire to blink rapidly to clear her mind before she was able to think straight again. A smile graced her lips and her gaze fell to his bare chest, flicking across the numerous tattoos that he wore. How hadn’t she noticed them the night before? The finely detailed compass on his inner right bicep looked like any other compass on first look, but noticed when she took a closer look that the red arm wasn’t pointing north, but east. The only she could visibly see was a string of cursive that dotted along his ribcage, extending to his side; ‘ _valor morghulis’._  He reached out until he was gripping her phone and pulled it from her hands, leaning over her legs to set it on the bedside table. “What does it mean?” 

It took a minute of searching her features until he managed to realize her gaze wasn’t locked on his but on the words permanently marked into his skin. What he hadn’t expected was the chill that erupted along his spine when Claire brushed her fingertips along the raised phrase. “Eat more pizza,” he laughed. He’d gotten it the moment he was conscious enough to go outside of the Army hospital he was withering away in. There was not a single doubt in his mind that he’d die in that place; without familythat gave a single shit about him he’d be dead in one month, easily. That was until he met Jamey, or Drill Sergeant Barbie, who was his  _one_  of his many nurses while in rehab. While she was every bit caring that a nurse should be, she had instilled in him that, while he would eventually die one day, it didn’t have to be from the actions of the goddamn Army. Or their enemies, rather. 

Claire rolled her eyes and scoffed, sinking down into bed beside him. She continued to trace the script, letting her touch pause in the space between words, her breath hitching once his hand found her knee. There was something about him, and it was goddamn infuriating to know that she’d let him get inside her head. "Fine, it means ‘ _all men must die’._ Does that satisfy your curiosity?” No, no it didn’t, not in the least. 

“So, the tattoo, it’s because of your leg? You were in the Army, then you nearly died, and when you realized that one day you  _would_  die, you got the tattoo?” It was one way of finding out what she  _really_  wanted to know. She’d noticed his limp from the first day she met him, it was hard to miss, but what Claire had been dying to know was  _how_  it happened. Until earlier that same night when she’d learned just how, and  _why_ , he’d been medically  _and_  honorably discharged from the Army. It wasn’t every day that a humvee ran over an IED, nor did many survive to tell about it. It wasn’t something he usually talked about, but he was caught so off-guard that he literally lost his usual ability to think of a distraction on the spot. Sure, he could’ve kissed her or suggested having sex, but that wasn’t why he’d sought out her company. Well, not  _completely._

Owen nodded and clamped his jaw shut, grinding his teeth until he could feel the migraine settling into the back of his head, threatening to shut him down if he didn’t quit. There was no reason she needed the gritty details but he had given them anyway, telling her how everything went black but he hadn’t lost consciousness; he was awake as he listened to three of his fellow friends and soldiers take their last breath and, when enemy fire ceased because they thought  _he_  was as good as dead, Owen had no way of telling how long he had laid on the cold, hard ground, his leg twisted beneath him and blood seeping from wounds scattered across his body. He’d never lost a minute of the pain, no matter how he  _begged_  to be taken, for some unruly force to kill him; lightening strike, an earthquake that would open the ground and suck him in, a plague of mosquitos that would drain his blood. He  _wanted_  to die. 

Claire rolled on her side and reached across the small distance to rest an open hand over his chest, her thumb directly over the words inked into his skin. “Do you ever dream about it? About the accident?” Claire didn’t remember opening her mouth to ask the second dumbest question of the night, but when she looked up to see the quizzical expression dotted across his features she realized  _he_ had asked. “Lowery told me while we were waiting for you to wake up, last weekend, was it? I’m not a psychic.” In a perfect world, she would’ve called Lowery and bitched at him for telling  _Owen_  of all people about the death of her parents, but they weren’t exactly on speaking terms. 

Claire didn’t want to let him into the twisted thoughts in her mind, the ones that plagued her most nights. She could go an entire day without thinking about it; without  _hearing_  the screams of twisting metal, without  _seeing_  the crimson-colored stains that were sprayed on every surface inside the truck. Before she knew what had happened, Owen had wrapped his fingers around her tiny wrist and pulled her hand into both of his. “I wasn’t the typical orphan, you know, I wasn’t like Annie, I had Karen.” Even Claire didn’t believe the words she spoke. Overnight, Karen was forced to morph from a  _sister_  into a  _caretaker_. She wasn’t given a choice in the matter, but neither was Claire. Their parents were both only children whose parents had been long gone from various diseases that had taken them far too soon in life. There were no other family members they could call, no long-lost Aunt who would be willing to take them in. 

“I don’t only  _dream_  about it. It’s all I can do to  _stop_  thinking about it, most days.” Claire closed her eyes as the scene played out in the sudden dark space pressed between them. It started at the same point every time, never once failing to shock her heart into tachycardia with the sight of her parents dislodged from their seats as she clutched to the seatbelt still strapped around her. “This,” he breathed, touching the side of her neck with the delicacy of a feather, “this is from the accident, isn’t it?” To this day she still had the scar from where the seatbelt, the  _only_  thing that had saved her, cut into the side of her neck from the force of being thrown forward and snapped back into the seat. “Hey,” his voice dipped to an unrecognizable tone, one she clearly hadn’t heard before. It encompassed a tenderness Claire certainly hadn’t expected from  _Owen_  of all people. Maybe there was more to this guy than she knew. “We all have our scars, some of them just run deeper than others.”

* * *

 

It was there  _again_. The void of sound, company, and the aura he carried with him wherever he went was gone. Claire hadn’t needed to open her eyes to distinguish between having him in her bed and what it felt like when he was gone, and as much as she tried to tell her heart to not grow attached, she was afraid it was far too late. When her eyes  _finally_  fluttered open after moving past the disappointment of not waking up to his lips smoothing down her neck, Claire rolled over only to see the stark-white paper tented against the pillow, and a smile briefly crossed her lips. 

 _Claire,  
_ _You jumped to conclusions_ again _and thought I’d left. Am I right? Well, it looks like I’m starting to figure you out, even when you’ve built those damn walls so high. Remember, I was a Ranger; I was practically_ trained _to climb walls. Meet me in the kennel; I have a surprise for your. Oh, and bring your stethoscope._  
\- Owen 

Without wasting much time (and without forgetting to brush her teeth) Claire was pulling open the back door to complete and utter silence. As if the morning couldn’t have gotten any stranger, she paused mid-step when she heard the soft sound. The contentment was palpable; Owen was  _singing,_ and not just casually. She leaned against the wall, giving herself leverage to peer around the corner to watch him. Owen was standing in the middle of the front reception area, gripping a paint brush that was serving a second purpose as his microphone. 

“Oh, half of my heart’s got a grip on the situation,” he sang quietly before ripping into the next line and spinning around like he had suddenly obtained John Mayer’s easy charm, until he spotted Claire from the corner of his eye before she could slip behind the wall again.  _Goddamnit_ , he thought to himself, growling quietly. Had he known she was there he would’ve picked a different song. Or, he wouldn’t have been singing at all. Claire, on the other hand, had two choices; she could either  _completely_  embarrass him, or pretend as if she hadn’t seen or heard a single thing. And because she wasn’t the  _worst_  person in the world, she settled for a neutral option. Walking deeper into the building, her stethoscope hanging around her neck, Claire began to clap and settled on whistling softly. “Why the hell did you go into the Army when you have chops like  _those_?” 

Owen rolled his eyes and dropped his gaze to the floor as he held both hands up in defense. He wasn't nearly as embarrassed as he  _should’ve_  felt, but that was due to the fact that he wasn’t dancing around in only his boxers. Nor would he have been embarrassed if it were Lowery who had caught him. On second thought, he would’ve been  _mortified._

Claire closed the distance between them slowly, passing through the brief reception area to do so, coming to a dead halt when she noticed the half-painted walls. “Owen...” Without even being asked, he’d already painted over the sterile-white walls, the same that had been since she bought the building, using a grey paint that brought a calming atmosphere to the entryway. “If I know what you’re going to say, and I do, then just save your breath, all right?” Turning back, he leaned over to dip the brush into the bucket before resuming at the wall, making soft, equal strokes along the surface as the remaining white wall eventually disappeared. 

Even if he  _knew_  what she was going to say, Claire knew it was complete bullshit. He didn’t know what the hell she wanted to say to him, and for all he  _knew_  she could chew him out for doing work  _she_  had been planning to do. Although, if he asked the simplest question of  _when_ , she’d have no alibi to resort to. Finally, she ran out of thoughts to sort through and picked up the deserted paint-roller that was leaning against the side of the bucket. There was no harm in helping, after all. They painted in silence for what seemed like only minutes, and Owen was left to consider the idea that she was  _mad._ Just as if she was actually tapping into his thoughts, Claire leaned over and bumped her hip against his, and with a soft smile laughed. “Did I say thank you, yet?” 

Owen scoffed, “no, as a matter of fact, you didn’t. Which I’m deeply offended over.” Biting into his lower lip to hide the smirk that ached to be set free, Claire’s jaw dropped wide as she scowled, furrowing her eyebrows together. “You’re  _seriously_  offended that I didn’t give you credit for breaking into  _my_ kennel to paint?” The fucking nerve that he had. Claire dropped the roller back into the bucket and took a step away, only turning back a moment later, just as Owen raised the paintbrush. “Claire, come on, I was--” He lunged forward and wrapped his large grip around her small wrist just in time for her to turn back towards him with a glowing smile. “Teasing? So was I.” Her sweet, melodic laughter echoed through the building and in the distance she could hear some of the dogs joining in on the fun. Her body shook and vision blurred with blissful tears as she watched the crimson blush creep to his cheeks. 

“Oh, you think you’re funny, do you?” While he held on tightly to her with one hand, he reached up with the other and took a quick swipe at her, successfully flicking the paint into her hair as she gasped loudly. That sound not only forced him to laugh but it caused quite the reaction as the memory of the night before came sprawling back. She had laid beneath him with legs wrapped tightly around his waist, gripping him as they had slow sex. Neither was in a rush to finish as they laughed quietly, reaching orgasm in their own time. After, Claire replayed his ‘ _O-face’,_ much to his chagrin. Charmingly he used it to his advantage and they agreed for a second round so he could repeat hers, but what he hadn’t told her was that it was all ready committed to memory. “Grey is  _so_  your color,” he chimed with an easy smirk. Now it was Claire’s turn to be unnerved, but even she couldn’t hold the snarl for long. Payback was more her style. While acting distressed of the drying paint in her hair, she had managed to talk Owen into going to the small kitchenette in the back, where they prepared the meals for the animals twice a day, for a warm paper towel to soak the paint out. 

The moment he disappeared behind the door Claire grabbed his discarded paint brush, loaded up on paint, and stealthily crouched down and waited for him to return. A minute soon turned into five and she abandoned the idea of the paint and went off to find him. Just as she swung open the half-door into the back, two warm hands wrapped around her waist and hoisted her into the air. “You realize I was watching you through the window the entire time, right? I knew you were going to try and hit me with paint.” He turned towards the wall and pressed her against it as Claire wrapped her legs around his waist and fiddled with sliding both hands into the hair at the base of his neck. As painstakingly hard as it was to admit,  _this_  was what she’d been seeking for so long. The adventure, the ability to be herself, finding the love of  _laughter_  again.“Claire, you’re not nearly as sly as you wish the rest of the world to see you as.” 

Soon, he carried her back into the lobby to resume their painting, easily moving through the motions until the entire front office was done, but not without both being nearly covered from head to toe in the color of the morning just before the birds woke. It took up the better part of the day seeing that they stopped nearly every hour, either for a coffee break, or to settle down from the laughter that threatened to rip their chests open. When all was said and done, Owen sat in the middle of the floor as they mused over their options for dinner after they came to the silent, mutual agreement that he would stay...  _again_. Claire laid on her back with her head resting on his thigh, soaking in the warmth he offered without regret. 

“So now what do we do?” Owen groaned, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t exactly want to get up, he was far too comfortable, but the more they allowed the paint to dry, the harder it would be scrub off every inch of visible skin. Claire tilted her head back and swallowed thickly, pulled out of a silent reverie of the flashbacks from their day. For the first time in what felt like  _ages_  she was able to think clearly; for an entire day, she hadn't once thought about her parents, the accident, and she couldn’t help silently wonder if he too found solace in his nightmares when he was with her. “Probably stay together, for our sanity...  _and_ survival.”

* * *

 

As always, I owe everything to those of you who make up my raptor dream-team: @amelias-obsessions, @the-clawen-pamphlet, @cometothedarkside-x, @wonderrbat, @poeticandvaguelysweet, @senatorrorgana, @verxxotle, @cali-forniacationn, @endearing-claire, @firestarter91, @all--the--dancers, @batmansgirlwonder, @dealingdreams, @dinosaurswowenough, and I’m sure there are so many of you that I’m forgetting to tag, and I profusely apologize.


	4. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been slacking on updating Homefront and BTL lately (mostly because I’ve been obsessed with my sweet little babies Clementine and Norah Jane) but regardless, here’s this update. Ta-da.

He didn’t leave. For the first time in Owen’s life, he wasn’t running from his fears, nor was he trying to find any way to bury them deeper inside his chest until they were threatening to rip from his skin and bleed their way out. The worst of it was out in the open; Claire knew about the scars from his past that had made their way deeper than bone. They’d successfully burrowed through a hole into the very bottom of his soul, claimed territory, and weren’t leaving anytime soon.

Luckily for him, neither was Claire. While Owen had decided it was best to continue staying with Lowery—as to not tempt fate further—there were few nights were he wasn’t with Claire, either staying over and leaving in the morning before she had to be up, or waiting until she was all ready at the clinic and then joining her. The offer still stood; he was welcome to work in the clinic and kennel, as much as he liked, and in return she tried her best to make him dinner, which usually resulted in ordering take-out. 

Owen thought she’d grow tired of coming home to seeing him every single day. Some afternoons he would try to be with Lowery for a while after he knew she left the clinic, if only to give her some space, but the moment she began texting him, he’d head over. Maybe it had gone from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds, but they weren’t professing their love for each other, so in his books everything was fine. A week turned into a month, and a month turned into two and before they knew it, they were sitting at dinner with Lowery and Zara discussing places they could vacation for a week. 

“If we aren’t going to go somewhere with a beach, then I’m not for it,” Zara complained. She was only interested in going on the vacation because Claire happened to be going; if she were stuck with Lowery for a week, they might end up killing each other. Plus, Lowery had broken things with Hannah once he realized their relationship wasn’t going anywhere if she thought it was an open one. Clearly, it wasn’t going to fly with Lowery, not that anyone else needed to know that. But, with her superb snooping skills, Zara had the scoop before Claire could even ask. 

Leaning back into the chair just as she lifted the glass to her lips to take a hefty sip of wine, Claire shrugged. “I don’t care where we go, just as long as it’s far away from here. I’m due for a vacation.” The statement earned glares from both Zara and Lowery, who both stared at her like she’d suddenly grown a second head. 

It went without needing to be said that Claire was, without a doubt, married to her career. It had always been that way, and much to everyone’s dismay, they thought she’d never change. Until Owen came along. And, whether or not it was by accident or not, Claire was starting to relax into the comfortable life of having Owen around; having another support system who didn’t care about her past, and who didn’t look at her like she was going to break every second of the day. He was there for her when she woke up in the middle of the night, screaming so loud it gave her a hoarse throat. He’d never been a deep-sleeper, and that only became less of a reality after the accident, so having Claire merely shift next to him often woke him up. But there was no other way he’d have it. 

Owen reached down to her thigh and threaded his fingers through hers, squeezing gently. Was it too much to ask they call it an early night and send Lowery and Zara on their way? Maybe their telepathy would finally begin and she would automatically sense the need to curl up in bed. He waited for a minute, two, before ten had passed. No telepathy. 

“I don’t know about the two of you,” he pointed a glance at Lowery before he sought out the door behind him, “but I’m utterly exhausted and have a class in the morning.” Zara shot a questioning glance his way and, when the two sat staring at him, it was obvious they weren’t going to leave without an explanation. “It’s first aid… for animals.” 

While he wasn’t buying the bullshit Owen tried to hand-feed, Lowery shrugged and pushed back in his seat. He knew when his time was up, and from the looks they were giving each other, he didn’t want to have a front-row seat to a strip show featuring two of his best friends. 

Zara, on the other hand, didn’t mind seeing Owen shirtless again. She’d caught a quick glance here and there when she’d randomly pop over after a day of teaching, and even though she’d mostly seen him working with power-tools on the new update of the kennel, or walking the dogs, the woman had an imagination like none other. And his body? It was that of a god, and it didn't take much to imagine herself beneath it. 

“Zara, where the fuck are you? C’mon, it’s time to leave.” Calling to her like Claire would a stray dog, Lowery stomped towards the front door, leaving it open as he called out a hasty goodbye to both Owen and Claire, promising he’d think of a vacation spot to add to the mix. 

Claire took the chance to escape back into the bedroom 

“First aid for animals? That’s the best you could think of?” She could feel her own laughter as it echoed off the walls of her bedroom, the same wall she was pinned against as his hard body held her tightly. Claire was busy recounting the moment—the one he was certainly present for—while Owen had more important items to check off his to-do list, and Claire was at the top. “You are aware of the fact that they didn’t buy a single word of that, right?” 

“Are you aware that, in this moment, I don’t exactly care what they think? I didn’t hear either of them arguing to stay, and they got the hint, so that’s really all that matters. Am I right?” The snide tone he adopted mingled into his edgy voice and, for a moment, Owen hesitated at the delivery. He hadn’t been holding back with Claire and yet the blank expression that flooded her features said otherwise. “Plus, you are going to teach me first aid in the morning.” 

“Are we going to have an anatomy lesson after?” Just to make him nervous, her features paled and she watched him with a blank expression until a smile cracked and she began to laugh. The sound painted the room a pale yellow, the same color that flooded the sky in the early morning, a forewarning that the sun would soon be rising over the hills decorated with snow. It was the melody that he heard echoing in his heart in the moments they weren’t within touch of the other, and it was the same hue that faded to an orange glow before dropping to a deep amber; a warning that he was falling far too fast. 

“You,” he dropped his lips to her earlobe and hissed, sinking his teeth gently into her skin as her moans began to flood his ears. Her voice, asking the most simple of questions, ‘me?’, only caused him to smile. He couldn’t be mad at the fact that she was poking fun—rightfully so—or that she gained entertainment out of making him growl and groan. It was another day that she didn’t voice the terrors of the accident she had no say in reliving each day; and that was all he needed to be happy. 

Their laughter faded into content silence as their hands continued the conversation neither wanted to voice. Every time he grabbed for the hem of her shirt, she slapped his hands away with a coy smirk. It wasn’t that easy to get into her pants. He squeezed her thigh, eliciting a squeal and a shiver that ran the length of her spine. The next time he reached for her waist and snaked a hand beneath, she didn’t fight. It was time to give into him, to accept that he was there to stay, and that for the first time in her life she had something to believe in. 

Owen carried her without struggle across the room to her bed and gently dropped her to the mattress, watching as she bounced slightly, his eyes falling to her chest in the next second. They’d had the ever illusive conversation only a few nights before, laying in bed after watching a riveting episode of Wheel of Fortune. It was her guilty pleasure.  _’Are you more of a boobs or butt kind of guy?’_  He really had no choice to answer, despite not wanting to. He wasn’t ashamed of the fact that he’d always caught himself letting his gaze drift too far south and, even with his training in the Army and respecting all women, he had no excuses when it came to loving breasts. _‘I’m not answering that question, Claire. Come on, we have more important things to not discuss.’_  She had battled his roundabout answer and met his retort with a hiss; of course he wouldn’t answer, he was only taking the easy way out. The one that would offend her in the least, but at the heart of it, she wasn’t asking so she’d have a reason to be offended.

 _‘If I tell you why I’m asking, will you then let out this secret that you’re holding back?’_   He’d considered the offer for a handful of seconds before nodding in agreement. He could play along with those rules. Plus, with the playful smirk she held, he couldn’t deny that he was eager to hear. Wordlessly, Claire pushed herself onto her knees and inched towards him, straddling him moments later. Here this beauty was, her legs wrapped around him, and he had no power over her. He was powerless when it came to trying to reign in Claire Dearing; he was realizing she was his Achilles Heel. His kryptonite. The woman at the end of his red string.  _‘I’m simply asking,’_ she wiggled her hips from side to side with a smirk as she felt him tense beneath her. She’d gotten handsy while they were on the couch and when she suddenly got up and headed into her room only to call out a quiet goodnight, he knew she’d been up to something. 

Well, she’d succeeded in getting him up. 

 _’As I was saying,’_ she smoothed her fingertips along his biceps as his muscles rippled beneath,  _‘I asked because I need to know how I’m going to walk around the house. Without a bra, or panties. Only to tease you, of course, because I don’t play the game where I’m supposed to be here for only your enjoyment.’_ Of course she didn’t, nor did he expect for her to. 

He’d tried to commit to not having a favorite; he could easily worship both at the same time, but Claire called him out on the bullshit. No one could worship two gods simultaneously; it was one or the other because, at the end of the day, one would get more attention. The other would grow jealous, and that’s how karma was born. 

“Eyes up here, lover boy.” She reached up for him, brushing a hand across his chest, frowning at the material he had yet to tug off. Was it so terrible that, while she hadn’t wanted to rush Zara and Lowery out so fast, now she wanted him with a fierce need? It was such bullshit to say she needed him; Claire had always prided herself on not needing people in her life; she wanted them. She could survive without Zara, or Lowery, but that didn’t mean she wanted to. From a young age she was forced to believe in herself, but maybe now she wanted to correct that. Was it so terrible? 

“I’m only going to say this once,” Owen sighed before he flopped onto the mattress beside her, reaching out to hook his arm around her waist to tug her closer, “I don’t care where the hell we go on this vacation, but if Zara plans on bunking with you, she’s got another thing coming. Unless she wants to get in on a three-some…” Casually, he glanced up at her as his voice trailed off, trying to gauge her reaction. Although, he wasn’t expecting her reaction. 

Claire merely shrugged and puckered her lips, biting into the lower one as if she were deep in thought. “It wouldn’t be the first time. And, on that note, it’s time for bed.”

* * *

 

“You know what I wish, Karen?” Turning hastily towards her sister, Claire jammed both hands to rest on her waist and narrowed her gaze at her older, and terribly protective sister. Trying to convince Karen that she was no longer the six year old who’d suffered a terrible accident and devastating loss of her parents was like trying to teach an old dog to perform new tricks. It would never happen, and the sooner she realized it, the better. 

Since the day Owen had arrived in town, Karen had been trying to warn Claire of the impending heartbreak.  _‘He isn’t the type of guy who stays with a girl who has problems.’_  The insult—which had only been spoken moments before Zara walked through the back door of the kennel before promptly removing herself from the premises—was still lingering between them, forcing Claire to bite into her bottom lip in a poor attempt at stifling a raging round of insults. 

Karen rolled her eyes in mediocre attempt at diffusing the situation. “What do you wish, Claire?” 

“I don’t need this harassment from you! I am honestly so sick and tired of you dictating what is best for me. You are constantly preaching that I need to get my life in order, but you’re in the same predicament, so how can you be so painfully naive and such a hypocrite?” 

“So you’re going to ignore the advice I’m trying to give you and pick a guy over your sister?” 

“Who said I have to choose?” Claire growled, “and who said he isn’t here to stick around?” It was the simple implanted idea that made her head spin. Had Owen said something to Karen? Or worse, to Lowery who thought it was his place to warn Karen first? Yanking her attention back to her sister, Claire sighed. “I’m exhausted, it’s been a long day, and I don't exactly want to talk to you anymore. So, I’m leaving. Have a nice night.” 

The walk from the kennel to her house never felt so long or exhausting, and by the time Claire shuffled into the house, only to see Owen standing in the kitchen, she couldn’t help the sigh that flooded through her entire body. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the person she wanted to see minutes after fighting with Karen over him. 

Fighting over a guy. This guy. The one who had proved her wrong over the past few months. 

“Long day?” 

Despite the fact that she was upset and it was mainly because of Karen, for whatever reason she felt the need to ignore him. Not that it was right, not in the least. But it’s what she needed. Claire walked through the foyer and down the hall only to hear his footsteps following her lead. 

“Claire, what’s wrong?” 

She huffed a long drag of a sigh, “I’d rather not talk about it, thanks.” 

Owen stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the back of her head, watching as her body deflated from whatever it was that she was holding in. He wasn’t the kind to push, though. It was no use to continuously ask her what was on her mind when, in the end, it would most certainly turn into some sort of heated debate. They were both headstrong and stubborn, and two wrongs would not make a right. At least not now. Instead, he turned and walked back towards the kitchen to continue with the dinner he was preparing, one she hadn’t noticed, not that it bothered him. While he busied himself at the sink, washing greens to turn into a salad, Owen barely missed her the she silently walked up to the bar countertop and sat on one of the stools, leaning her elbows on the countertop and her chin in the palm of her hand. 

Besides the point that she’d changed out of her clothes and spritzed on the lavender perfume, he glanced up with the slightest of a smirk tweaking at the corner of his lips, one that Claire hardly missed. “Can you please not look so smug at the fact that I came out here?” 

“What, I can’t be proud that even you couldn’t deny coming out here to see me?” 

“No, I came out to see what you were cooking for me.” 

Before she could tell how he was going to react, Owen rounded the edge of the counter and stood beside her. “Look at me,” he whispered, reaching out to turn her gaze towards him when she didn’t. “Claire.” His voice was gruff and harsh in the sense that he wasn’t kidding around. This wouldn’t be a time where he next reached for her waist and began tickling her, forcing her to beg for mercy before he quit. 

“Just—“

“Don’t tell me to relax, Owen. I don’t want to relax. I want to be angry.”

“Fine, you want to be angry? Then tell me what you’re so angry over, so I know not to talk about it.” It was reverse psychology at it’s finest. 

Here’s the thing, though. When he asked Claire to unleash, he didn’t expect that he’d get the second-by-second recount of the day, leading up to the falling out she had with her sister, accompanied by the tears that melted through his third-party stance. While he was still figuring Claire out, it hadn’t taken long to understand that she rarely cried. Yes, she showed emotion, she wasn’t a blank stare, but it took more than just a fight to make her cry.

She delved into what it felt like to be demeaned by her own sister—the only biological family she had left—Claire didn’t dwell on what she’d said about Owen; it was all lies, anyways. She never, not for a second, believed that Owen was what some would claim as a ‘runner’. He was more than that. 

By the time he decided to bring it up again and to delve back into the pain it had caused her, after she’d taken a shower that he happened to sneak in on, they were in bed together, his arms curled around her as she laid tucked against his chest, her head resting below his chin. There was something about having her in his arms that made him feel at peace. Her skin, luscious with lavender lotion, was smoother than silk, and the warmth she exuded helped to calm his racing nerves. “You know, she had every right to say what she did about me,” he inhaled sharply as the words resounded in his mind. What would she think he meant? That he had the right to run? “Do you believe that people can change?”

“Where the hell is this coming from? I thought we were going to bed?” Not that she minded talking, but the idea of sleep sounded heavenly. 

“Well, considering that we’re in bed, we’ve already checked that off the list.” 

Owen sighed. Had he ever thought in a million years he would be the type to feel content with settling down? They were eons from it, as far as he was concerned, but he wouldn’t mind waking to her for as far as they could see. “I was a runner, but I have nothing left to run from. I can’t run from the pain, because it will never change, and I can’t run from my past because it’ll just continue to haunt me.” As his voice trailed off into a silent whisper, Claire could feel his muscles contract and his grip tightened around her waist. Instinctively, she prepared to turn in his arms to pull him from the nightmare that would force its way into his mind. 

“You can’t run forever, Owen.”

Silently, he tugged her to turn over to face him, cupping her chin in the palm of his hand. “I don’t want to run, I’m done.” He nuzzled his lips against her cheek, kissing a path to her neck, collarbone, before his lips pressed against her shoulder. There weren’t enough words in the language to describe how he felt about her, but four small words seemed to be the answer. “I’ve found my  _home_.”

* * *

 

As always, I owe everything to those of you who make up my raptor dream-team: @amelias-obsessions, @the-clawen-pamphlet, @cometothedarkside-x, @wonderrbat, @poeticandvaguelysweet, @senatorrorgana, @verxxotle, @cali-forniacationn, @endearing-claire, @firestarter91, @all--the--dancers, @batmansgirlwonder, @dealingdreams, @dinosaurswowenough, and I’m sure there are so many of you that I’m forgetting to tag, and I profusely apologize.


End file.
